Call Me Crazy
by Penelope Wendy Bing
Summary: Sometimes people call Annie crazy. And they may be right, they may be absolutely right. Somehow, he makes it seem not to matter. Written for Writting2StayHalfSane as part of the Secret Santa Gift Exchange. Merry Christmas, Ninjane!


**A/N**- This was written as part of the Secret Santa Gift Exchange my friends and I participated in. This one goes out to my deardeardeardear love, Jane, or Writting2StayHalfSane. Love you, Ninjane, and merry Christmas! A big hanks to Laeve for betaing for me. And also, I do not own _The Hunger Games_, although something tells me you could have deduced that on your own.

-x-

Sometimes people call me crazy.

They must be right, I suppose. I mean, they say they can't hear all the voices and the sounds. Nobody else can hear them. Just me. I guess I really _am _crazy. But it's not enough to stop me from walking down the street with my hands pressed over my ears, humming as loudly as I can. It doesn't matter that it's silent for everyone else; it's all real to me.

I remember when everything used to be so loud that I couldn't hear the 'real' world. When Caesar gave me my victor's interview, he had to shout to be heard. It made the whole thing into a joke, but I could barely even focus long enough to be embarrassed. I wasn't a career, but I was still a victor and I was expected to hold together better than this.

But I couldn't, I couldn't. I kept hearing it. Over and over again: Bernard's head would thump as it hit the ground. His body would fall slowly. The girl from District 1 would laugh her nasally laugh, and I'd hear her sword thud into his body. Once, twice, three times.

It was only my shock that saved me. If I had any wits about me, I would have screamed. She would have found me, and Carbonation Merrigan would have saved me. But I didn't, so she didn't either.

It was silence that doomed me, so it seemed only fitting my hell would come in the form of sound.

I tried everything I could to make it be quiet in my head. There were drugs, so many drugs. Nothing worked, unless it kept me asleep. I wanted those drugs that would keep me away from the sound, but the supplier said too much of them would kill me, or at the very least addict me. I attacked him when he wouldn't give me any. I was placed under house arrest for "my own safety" until the incident was out of public eye.

In my house I did everything else I could think of. I played the strange little musical chips I had got from my demented admirers in the Capitol at top volume. It didn't help. I could still hear the dam break, the cannon sound. And I can't listen to any of those songs anymore, because they make it all come back too loudly. Too loudly.

I tried doing all those relaxing things the doctor in the Capitol said I should. I took long baths. I meditated. I watched shallow sitcoms where brightly colored people lived silly lives, trying to let my brain just melt away for a moment. It didn't work. None of it did.

I would have killed myself during those days if it hadn't been for the guards in my house. They couldn't have Annie Cresta dead while there was so much media attention focused on her. No, that wouldn't do. So they made me suffer.

I remember the first time I saw him. Well, it actually wasn't the _first _time, of course, but it was the first time that mattered. I might have seen Finnick Odair before (how could I not? He was possibly the most famous victor in history), but I had never _seen _him before. Really seen him. As he laughed, flirting with the escort like he did every year, everything went quiet. The roar of a crowd of careers all fired up for reaping day, the rush of blood past my ears; even Carbonation's laugh as she killed Bernard faded away. There was something about him, in the way he smiled and spoke low. The way the sun made his hair glow. For a moment my fractured mind clicked into place, the horrible sounds taking the backseat to the strange mix of clarity and dreamy haze that floated through my mind. Then it all crashed down and I hear Bernard's cannon fire again, but it didn't matter. From that point on, I needed Finnick Odair.

As I stumbled onstage for the reaping, I couldn't take my eyes off of him. I don't think he noticed me staring for a few minutes, but when he did he started to shuffle his feet uncomfortably. I couldn't figure out why. Finnick had to be used to being stared at. But maybe he wasn't used to being stared at the way I was staring at him, hungry and crazy. Maybe I was scaring him away.

I didn't care because just looking at him, trying to memorize the soft lines of his face, was enough to quiet the sounds in my head. I watched him through the entire reaping, not even noticing as the Treaty of Treason slipped by, and the mayor's speech, and the escort's, and the drawing of tributes. Once the reaping was over, Finnick disappeared almost immediately. Almost before I knew what was happening, the sounds slammed against my ears again. I shouted in pain, crumpling to my knees and rocking back and forth. I heard murmuring coming from the crowd. The middle of the stage with cameras rolling probably wasn't the best place to have a breakdown.

"Miss Cresta. We need to take you to the train," I heard a Peacekeeper say, his voice barely loud enough to carry over the screams of a drowning thirteen-year-old boy.

I whimpered miserably, but allowed him to lift me more or less to my feet and carry me to the train. I wished that the girl this year would win. Then I wouldn't have to mentor any more. All of the children to come would be better off with just about anybody, really.

He dropped me gently onto the couch where I lay with my hands clenched over my ears. I moaned loudly, hoping I might be able to drown out the rush of the rising floodwaters.

I didn't hear my name the first time she said it. She was too quiet. I _did _feel her shake my shoulder, pulling me back to the present. I forced my eyes open, and immediately felt a little trill of embarrassment in my stomach. Finnick, our two tributes, the escort, and one of the avoxes stared at me. I guess they were a little disturbed by my behavior. I forced myself to smile and sit up. _Oh, don't worry. I'm fine, guys. _Of course, it wasn't very convincing after having seen me rolling and screaming only a moment before, but the escort forced a smile.

"Alright!" he chirped. "Why don't we reintroduce ourselves? I'm Pollux…" he said, smiling brightly.

"Finnick Odair."

"Aisha Keisling," the small girl murmured.

"Consh Abern," the male tribute grunted.

Consh was clearly a Career, with his heavy build and insolent air. Aisha… wasn't. She was the same as me, just unlucky enough to be drawn on a year where there wasn't a Career girl ready to save her; actually, even less lucky. District 4 hadn't gone two years in a row without a female Career in about twenty years. Since there was no one there for me, there should have been somebody there for her.

Dinner passed with forced conversation. I could tell that the way I pressed my hands against my ears and rocked slightly as I ate was putting a damper on everyone's evening. But even I got to know our two tributes well. Consh was just another Career. Good, but not good enough to make up for his ego and the fact that he would be branded a threat and targeted. Aisha was young and quiet, but also full of hope. She was the only one willing to meet my eyes. As the female mentor, I was expected to lead her. My stomach sunk. I'd won my Games only because no one else could swim, and it had sent me insane. If Aisha had to rely on me, she didn't have a chance.

"Finnick," I whispered after the children had wandered off after dinner. "I- you need to take care of Aisha. I'm no good. Please, don't let anything happen to her."

I could feel his eyes boring into me. It was the most normal, comprehensible sentence I'd ever said to him. I felt him judging me, deciding more than taking on another tribute.

"Alright," he said finally, and rose abruptly.

I watched him silently as he went. He was only a year older than me, but he was taller and healthier-looking. He still had a Career's build. If anything, he looked like he was in better shape than he was when he won.

I wondered what decision he'd come to about me. Maybe he thought it was good sign I had enough wit about me to fear for my tribute. Maybe he thought I was pathetic. Maybe he'd just decided that he wouldn't judge me yet.

Finnick did his best, I know. When a snake bit Consh a week into the Games Finnick didn't send him anti-venom. He sent Aisha a blanket, just in time to keep her from freezing to death. But it wasn't enough. Aisha - despite her young age - landed an impressive sixth place, but she still died.

That night I just lay in bed, not even able to cover my ears. I had seen myself in Aisha- unprepared, innocent, and fighting for a prize I didn't understand the consequences of achieving – and the last thing someone in my mental state needed was to watch myself die.

The next morning I heard a quiet knock on my door. It was difficult to hear, but luckily for me the noises had receded almost to a background hum after an entire night of only the sounds and my own thoughts. I sat up and croaked that whoever it was could come in. The mentors' quarters in the Capitol were highly guarded. There was no way someone who wished me harm could have gotten in; although, if they had, it would have been something of a blessing in disguise.

Finnick pushed the door open slowly. He looked miserable, and I knew why. The last of our tributes was dead. Not only that, but he had directed funds toward her from someone who probably could have made better use of them. He would be taking a lot of flak for this when we got home. Finnick stood awkwardly in the doorway, before seeming to gather his strength and walking to my bed.

"I'm sorry about Aisha. I… did the best I could," he said finally.

"It's okay. I know," I said, my voice cracking from disuse the way it always did lately.

On an impulse I crawled to the foot of my bed and wrapped my arms around Finnick's waist, my head resting against his stomach.

Finnick stiffened, but after a moment put a hand on my shoulder. I dug my fingers into his jacket where it hung loose at the small of his back. He was soft and still and the voices in my head faded slightly as I breathed in his faint smell of sea salt and plain soap; almost erased after the time using Capitol showers, but still clinging to the coat he'd worn.

Looking back, I don't think Finnick was used to someone touching him like that, without any thoughts of lust, without the intent to buy him. It had probably been a long time since anyone had touched Finnick Odair merely because they needed somebody and realized that he was probably more than an object to be used for their own pleasure. I like to think that while Finnick holding me quieted the voices in my head that night, I may have gotten to give something to him, too.

Once the victor's interview was over we were shunted back home almost immediately. Things went back to normal, for the most part. In other words: I was miserable. The District 1 girl's laugh rang in my ears, and I locked myself into my room. I kept hoping that Finnick Odair would suddenly show up and make the noises go away, but he didn't, of course.

I swung my legs off my bed, wobbling slightly. The sound of the dam breaking made me wince, and I almost fell over. A peacekeeper grabbed onto my elbow to steady me, and I tried to smile in thanks. It came out as more of a pained grimace, but he understood, nodding slightly. I hobbled to my door, leaning heavily on him. His eyebrow rocketed up. I hadn't left my room in almost a week.

I managed to make it down the hall, but had to ask him to open the door for me. I was too weak after such a long period of inactivity.

The sun almost blinded me. It was always sunny in District 4, but now in the height of summer it was sweltering. I had almost forgotten how hot it could get outside, spending all my time in my house with its Capitol-grade air conditioning. I winced, throwing up my hand to shield my eyes.

"Miss Cresta?" the peacekeeper asked me, clearly wondering what hallucinatory tangent I was off on this time.

I shook my head silently. He was being paid to watch over me. He could at least follow me across the street in Victors' Village. And helping me down the stairs would be nice too, I realized as I wobbled, clutching the railing. He got the message and held out his hand. I grabbed onto his arm and labored down the steps. A passing couple in their twenties, probably on their way to the beach or something like that, stared at me. It had been too long since I'd been out, clearly.

I knew which was Finnick's house. There were more residents in District 4's Victors' Village than most - six victors and their assorted family members, at the moment - but there weren't enough of us that I had no idea where someone as famous as Finnick lived.

I knocked on his door, not really expecting an answer. After a moment I tried one more time. I heard a response from somewhere inside the house, but not well enough to make out words or if it was Finnick or just a housekeeper. I heard footsteps - coming down the stairs, maybe – and he pushed the door open.

"Oh. Annie Cresta. What… can I help you?" he was thrown off, apparently.

There was none of his usual suavity or seduction. I shivered a little in relief. That Finnick didn't make it any quieter.

"Could I come in, please?" I said quietly.

I couldn't hear my own voice over a cacophonous blast or cannons. He hesitated. He was clearly uncomfortable. I guessed he didn't really know me well enough to be used to the idea I'd just stumble over for no apparent reason. Eventually he nodded and pulled the door open.

"Should I…" the peacekeeper asked, shuffling his feet.

"No, I can handle it, Bassus," Finnick responded. Bassus nodded and marched back towards my house. I watched him go silently before ducking into Finnick's house. I wished I had a house without stairs, like his.

The blast of cool air from the air conditioner was a relief. It was a wet heat in August, and all you really had to do was go outside and you were sweating. I wiped my palms against my rumpled skirt and stood awkwardly in the hallway. What was I doing there, anyway? I hadn't had a plan, really. Just go over there and everything would work out on its own. Well, so much for that theory.

"So, what are you doing here?" Finnick asked.

I tried to think of a good answer, but I couldn't. Which left me with the truth.

"I- you've seen me cover my ears, right?" I rasped.

I hated the way my voice sounded lately, ever since the Games, really. I'd stopped using it often, so when I tried to, it was never in good shape. Finnick nodded slowly. The words started rushing out of my mouth, like water through that fateful broken dam.

"I hear things, awful things. I hear her laugh when she kills him, I hear his head hit the ground, I hear the dam break, I-" I stumble in my words, unable to manage anything more than a choked sound.

"Are you alright?" Finnick asked, clearly alarmed.

_It's loud. Oh, please be quiet. I need you to be quiet. Get out of my head! Getoutgetoutgetout._

I moaned, digging my fingers into my hair, knees buckling. I expected to hit Finnick's floor, but he caught me. Barely, but he managed. He swung me up and carried me to his couch. I think I was crying. I certainly felt like crying. I knew what would happen now. Finnick would call a doctor, and somebody would take me home and give me some medicine, and then I'd never get to come back again. Finnick would never make it quiet for me.

But he didn't. I didn't let him. I grabbed his hand, tightly, crying.

I could hear him murmuring things; feel him stroking my hair like I was a small child. He was worried about me, I'm sure. I didn't blame him. I was in bad shape, even for me.

What was he saying? I couldn't hear, but I latched onto the indistinct sound of his voice. It was enough. His voice was soft and low, nice to listen to. I was just distracted enough that the other sounds began to fade slightly into the background. As I listened, I realized he wasn't speaking at all. He was humming something. While his voice had a naturally musical tone to it, he wasn't a very good singer, scooping and stopping for breath in the middle of notes. I didn't care. It was enough.

I listened as he hummed to me, and slowly I stopped shuddering. For the first time in a year the sounds were gone. _Gone_. There was nothing.

I don't think most people ever learn to appreciate the intense beauty of silence. There's something about it; it vibrates and floats just like a note held by a violin. Not only that, but it's like finding a treasure chest buried in the sand. Silence is precious. You can't just clap your hands and make the entire world go silent for you. You need to drink it in when you can find it. For me, that wasn't often enough.

The last, low note of Finnick's song rumbled into silence. I should have been afraid of the inevitable return of the noise, but I couldn't. Music has power, too. Do you know that moment after a song dies, when there's a long moment of quiet that makes the air feel warm and thick? It seeped into my mind. I couldn't fear anything, even if I'd wanted to. Which is probably what saved me. If my mind had been sharp enough to worry about the fear, the barriers around my mind would have gone brittle and cracked.

"Thank you," I whispered, still looking at the soft skin of his hand.

"Annie, what _was_ that?" he finally managed.

"I hear voices," I whispered. "And other sounds, like the dam breaking in my Games, all the time. Sounds no one else can hear. And they're so loud - it's driving me insane." I chuckled, my laugh brittle. "Well, more insane. But something about you makes it quiet. I think it's because you're so quiet yourself, so I have to make the voices quiet to hear you."

He looked a little skeptical. I can understand why. The Finnick he pretended to be was anything but quiet: gliding past paparazzi, in and out of famous beds and scandals. There was more noise in Panem about Finnick Odair than possibly anyone else.

"Not who you pretend to be, but who you really are. It's so hidden, that I need to hear past the sounds to find it," I say. I knew how it sounded. It sounded stupid, sappy, but it was true. I expected him to either laugh, or frown, or something; but he just nodded.

"Okay," he said quietly.

From then on Finnick would smile at me when we were forced into public. Sometimes I would manage to reach his house in the middle of the night, and he'd hum to me. I don't remember when it was that we first started to really just talk. It was a long time after that first day. I only really remember talking to him before the next reaping. He was holding my hand tightly. The pressure hurt a little, but it quieted the sound of a small boy's screams beautifully to have that distraction.

It was easier to watch them die that year. They were both Careers, and the girl had insulted me pretty badly before she entered the arena. Not a good idea to get on your mentor's bad side.

It was the day the boy died that Finnick asked if I needed to stay with him that night. I was only too grateful to accept. I knew other people were starting nasty rumors - Finnick Odair, the well-known sex symbol, bringing that vulnerable crazy girl into his room at night? How suspicious! - but neither of us cared. We just sat and hummed and rocked and whispered all night.

I moved in with him almost immediately. This is where I've stayed ever since. The rumors are old hat now. Of course, there's no truth to them.

I open my eyes, slowly. I close them right away. I hate those first few moments after you wake up, when you just want to groan in frustration. Why did you have to wake up now? You don't want to be awake yet. Go back to sleep, self! But you can't. You know you can't.

I lie in bed for another few minutes, just being warm and listening to Finnick breathe. The voices are gone now. Almost. Sometimes they'll come back, when my tribute dies and guilt punches me in the stomach. When I think of how my mother has refused to see me since I returned, even rejecting a life of insane riches because she can't face me after those long years of insanity. When Finnick's sold away again and he tells me they made him share their bed. But everything he does, he does with love for me; and every time I scream, he's with me before I can even call out for him.

Sometimes people call me crazy. They look at the way Finnick sleeps with all those rich Capitol people and turn up their noses, but they don't understand. They don't know how he loves me. How I love him. They will never understand. They don't know how he cries every time Snow forces him to be with someone else. They don't know how he refuses to do anything more than kiss me, because he feels unclean from doing all those things he didn't want to do.

Finnick's eyes crack open. He smiles groggily, stroking my cheek.

"Good morning, Annie," he mumbles, and kisses me gently.

There's no sound. No pain. No Hunger Games. Only love.

Sometimes people call me crazy.

Sometimes I just can't find it in me to care.


End file.
